


Harder!

by notmissmarple



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Curling, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-13
Updated: 2014-02-13
Packaged: 2018-01-12 04:39:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1182018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notmissmarple/pseuds/notmissmarple
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek isn't precisely sure how he ended up here.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Harder!

**Author's Note:**

  * For [alexscat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/alexscat/gifts).



"It'll be fun, I _swear_."

Derek isn't precisely sure how he ended up here. Oh, he knows that Stiles got intrigued by something or other he'd seen on television (honestly, one look at what they were wearing and Derek was blinded), which had kicked off an epic bout of internet research and awkward questions, but still - he'd be lying if he said he wasn't a little intimidated and appalled by the situation he'd allow himself to get into.

He looked up at the awkward-looking 50-something man handing out forms, and swallowed.

"You didn't tell me there would be _forms_ , Stiles."

"They're just pieces of paper. _Sign it_. It's not like you're going to break a leg or something like that."

"No because then it would heal and everybody here would know that- Hello!" He smiled at the man behind the folding table, and scribbled his name hastily before handing it over."

"Your first time?"

Derek coughed, and blushed.

"That's okay, that's why we're here. Just get yourselves comfortable, nobody's going to bite - unless you want them to." He laughs uncomfortably, looking between Stiles' and Derek's faces. "Um, well. It doesn't look like you'll have to change, but you might want to do some stretches."

Derek grabs Stiles by the arm and hauls him over to the corner, away from the throng of people apparently also here to gawk (and maybe participate).

"Ow ow ow Derek OW, look, just- will you give it a try? If you don't like it, or they make you feel uncomfortable-" (Stiles just coughs at the look Derek gives him) "-we don't have to come back. I promise."

Derek doesn't actually verbally agree to anything (he'd like that noted for the record), but that's how he's found himself out here, trying not to injure himself (or, more likely, Stiles).

"Right, so, um, welcome to the Beacon Hills Curling Club which, as you can see isn't really a club so much as rented ice here at the hockey rink, but they let us use it Tuesday nights after all the practices are done, so until we can raise the money for a facility of our own, this is what we've got. Thank you all for coming to our Olympics Open House - I'm sure most of you are just here to see if we all wear crazy outfits like the Norwegian team, or maybe just for the free beer when you lose your game, but hopefully you'll have a good time anyway, and if so, we've got a couple different league options that are open to all ages."

Next to him, Stiles is nearly vibrating in his skin with excitement, and Derek sighs, resigning himself to months of cold Tuesday nights.

"So, the first thing you should know is that, if you were playing on a real curling sheet - that's the name for the area you play on - it would be a very different surface. We try to pebble here, but curling ice is treated much different from skating ice, and so-" Derek takes in everything as the man's voice drones on about hogs and biters and full houses, and before he knows what's going on, somebody is putting a stick and some floppy things in his hands.

"You put those over your shoes," Stiles not-so-subtly whispers as he puts them on his own. Derek follows suit as he gives the the side-eye to the pad on the end of the... broom that he's apparently supposed to use to- sweep? Somebody's flipping a coin, and another member of the curling club - a 30-something woman with neon pink hair and a nose piercing - tells him that they've got the hammer, whatever that means.

Stiles bumps shoulders with him and apparently what it means is that he gets to stand around for 15 minutes while a few of the curlers try and help a somebody from the other rink (they can't just say _team_?) slide without falling flat on his face.

"You weren't paying attention to anything Dave said, were you?" He eyes Derek and lets out a sigh of his own. "Okay, just - you have to let go of it before the line, you want it to get over that _other_ line, and other than that, just follow what the skip - I mean, Dave - says."

Derek tries to look like he cares, but Stiles' rolling eyes tell him he hasn't succeeded.

"Look, just. Pretend the house - that's those circle thingies there - is like your den. You want all of YOUR pack - that's these red stones here - in the den. And when we're done, we don't want any of Jacks- I mean, the OTHER pack, those yellow stones, in the den. Get them right out of there, smash 'em to smithereens - I mean, but not literally. I don't think they'd appreciate it, since they came all the way from Scotland."

Derek is pretty sure Stiles would've continued, but now the be-pierced curler is taking Stiles over to the black thing (hack, it's called a hack, Derek, he hears as tells the Stiles in his head to shut up) and Stiles manages both to slide out and let go of the stone before falling over and laughing hilariously.

"I did it! Watch out Team USA!"

Derek smirks as he watches the stone slow down and the sweepers stop along with it - a good 8 or 10 feet before the far hog line.

"Okay, okay, maybe give me a few months first."

Derek offers his hand and helps Stiles up from the ice and is thanked by way of a hug, complete with frozen hands going up the back of his shirt. He manages to keep from yelping (or falling over) as Stiles snickers.

"You really are going to have to wear a sweatshirt or something next time, or people are _totally_ going to know something is up."

"If we come back."

"WHEN we come back."

Derek doesn't argue, if only because it's his turn next, and by the time the instructors are done with him and he's graduated from sliding with two stones to sending one down the sheet, he's maybe admitting to himself that this whole thing isn't quite so bad as he'd feared.

The practice game is called after three innings ("ends," Stiles _outside_ of his head corrects him) because there's only so many times newbies can fall without hurting themselves, and only so long non-weres can hang out in a room full of frozen water when they're not actively moving around. Despite Derek's best efforts (including two draws to the button), their rink lost, and Derek nurses his Molson Blue before leaving it on the table, where Stiles will inevitably steal it. A friendly motherly type is talking to Stiles about their pizza league (Derek should've known better than to bring him anywhere there's both pizza _and_ beer) and a 20-something guy in a suit is saying something to Derek about needing a second for his five and under, whatever that means.

It's close on midnight when Stiles finally yawns, leaning his head against Derek's shoulder.

"Ready to head out?"

Stiles nods, and then grimaces as he shifts to get out of his chair. "Not sure I can walk to the car, though. Shit man, I didn't even know I _had_ muscles there." He looks over at Derek and waggles his eyebrows. "I'm gonna need a masseuse or something."

There's a pinch, surprisingly strong from somebody who supposedly can't even make it to the car, and Derek chokes a little, hiding it with a smile as they pass Dave, who makes them promise to come back.

They do though, with their rink placing third in the men's league and first in the pizza league. And if anybody in the Beacon Hills Curling Club happens to notice that Derek Hale never seems to get drunk, even after long nights at the club on a bonspiel night, or the strangled look he gets when Stiles yells "harder!" from the other end of the sheet, then at the very least - what happens at the curling club stays at the curling club.


End file.
